No Definition
by Mandolin77
Summary: Near reflects on his relationship with Mello, trying to find a definition for this strange new feeling he's experiencing. One-shot, MelloXNear. Yaoi, fluff, artistic lemon. Spoiler warning!


**My first Death Note fan fic. :. ) If I made any mistakes, grammatically or with the characters/story, please let me know. Reviews are much loved! I'd like to know what everyone thinks of the 'Leather' section - should I take it out? I couldn't decide whether or not it was out of place. Thanks! **

**Disclaimer: Don't own Death Note, or anything else. **

_***Spoiler warning!* **_**f****or Mello and Near's real names.**

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_Chocolate is a sweet brown food, usually eaten as a dessert, made from roasted and ground cacao seeds. Often times cocoa butter and dried milk are added as sweetener. Chocolate is made into bars or candy, or used to flavor other foods such as cakes, cookies, and sauces. The name is likely derived from the Nahuatl word 'chocolatl,' which roughly translated comes to mean 'the bitter water.' _

I have never been fond of chocolate. It is too sugary, too sticky; beyond the antioxidants in the darkest form, it holds no real nutritional value. Yet I have no explanation to the fact that my head jerks up every time I smell the stuff, or why I am always disappointed that it isn't him there at the end of the candy bar. I could never tell why I kiss him like I do, pulling his face close, touching his tongue with mine just to taste the melted treat that always seems to linger in the recesses of his mouth. The taste and the smell that I used to despise, used to associate with being punched and kicked and in hospital-worthy pain, now brings out lust in me that I didn't know I possessed.

The first time, it was the chocolate on his lips that did it. Not the leather of his gloves on my face, or the feel of his throbbing arousal pressing into my thigh, but the chocolate that swirled around our mouths as we kissed. We moaned and panted, but again and again I rejected the sweat covered flesh he offered access to, instead favoring his hot mouth against mine. The position was awkward, but I wanted to feel his lips dancing with me, wanted to taste the dark richness of his mouth. The Saint Valentine's Day candy has become my secret turn on: the first time he was kind to me, it was chocolate he offered. The night he left I found chocolate smeared on my pillow, spelling out the words 'See you, N.' The first time he came to visit, I smelled the chocolate and I knew it was him. The first time he kissed me, tentatively, if I dare use the word, it was chocolate that I licked off my lips when we parted. The first time we came together, finding the heights of ecstasy against one another's bodies, my tongue was coated with the taste of chocolate and the weight of his name.

His real name.

_A name is simply the title given to a person or object to identify it. Can also mean an uncomplimentary or abusive term used to describe somebody, often behind their back. There are many idioms using the word, such as 'to name names,' and 'in name only.' The Indo-European word name stems from, 'nama,' is also the root of many other common English terms, including anonymous, pseudonym, renown, nomenclature, and synonym. _

Shakespeare asked once, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." I thought I agreed. Near, Nate, N… it was all the same, wasn't it? No matter what they called me or teased me with, no matter if I was brainiac or nerd or freak or albino, it was still the same person they referred to. But that night my world was turned upside down in so many ways, and my view of one's title went with it. Between pants and kisses, I moaned out, "Mello," and he shook his head without stopping the nipping of my neck.

"No," he hissed back, his voice as hoarse as mine. "Not Mello. Mihael." I rolled the name over for a moment before answering.

"Nate," I whimpered as he licked the red marks he'd made. "Nate Rivers."

"Nate," he repeated, growling in pleasure. "Short for Nathan?"

"Uh-huh."

He bit the place where the clavicle joins the shoulder and I cried out, wrapping my arms tighter around him. "Well, Nate, it's… nice to meet you."

"Mihael…" was all I managed between frantic breaths. "You… too."

No word had ever felt so good in my mouth, and I found the rest of my vocabulary faded away as we continued together until it was just those two syllables that clouded my brain and fell from my mouth, over and over and over again. He was just as bad.

On the edge, he let go of my hips that he had been guiding and threw his arms around me while I continued to move unbidden, his face turned up to look into my eyes, gasping. Then suddenly his head dropped down to my shoulder, hot breath mixing with the sweat. He took hold of my hair with both hands and spasmed almost violently, spilling deep inside of me, growling my name into the crook of my neck. I followed a moment after, screaming out the name of the man I'd just lost my virginity to; the man that I would lose my body, my mind, and my heart to every night after.

_A scar is a visible manifestation of the healing process, a mark created during the mending of damaged tissue. To repair a wound, the body releases the protein collagen, which reattaches the skin. As the wound heals, a temporary crust called a scab forms over the injury to protect the damaged area and later falls off. Initially, the scar is a shade of crimson because red blood vessels are produced while the body creates scar tissue. Over time, the color will generally fade to a pinkish or brown color and become less noticeable. _

So why, long after he's fallen asleep beneath me, do I run my hand up and down the left half of his face, savoring the feel of the rough skin under my fingertips? The scab is still present at the very edges, and he shudders as I ghost over it; a natural reaction that makes the breath hitch in my throat. Such marks are usually believed by society to be unattractive, but I couldn't disagree more. I think he is beautiful. Suddenly the demon that tormented me for so many years has become just as human as me, and it is beautiful to watch. What he might consider his ruin I see as his rebirth.

_Breathing is a verb, derived from the Old English word '__bræð,' meaning odor or scent. It is the process of taking oxygen into the lungs through the mouth or nose and in turn exhaling the byproduct carbon dioxide. The process is subconscious, and necessary to life. If one is deprived of oxygen to breathe – asphyxiated – the body will die usually within three to four minutes. Like the beat of the heart, involuntary breathing, as when sleeping, is controlled by the autonomic nervous system. _

None of this explains why I am still awake at three o'clock in the morning just to listen to him breathe, just to marvel at the way his chest rises and falls softly, bouncing my head as I rest on top of him. We all breathe, all animals and even plants do, so why is it _his_ breath that I match my own lungs to? Why is it _his_ breath that seems so sweet, so very perfect as it quivers over my face, rustling white hair tenderly and warming the tip of my nose?

My mind balks as the idea; how can one's breath possibly be considered perfect? But as one deep inhalation sends our bodies shuddering, I lose my train of thought and gaze up at the blond. His eyes are shut, long dark lashes making an exquisite frame against the sun-bronzed skin. He snores, almost inaudibly - it is only because I am so close that I can hear it. The fingers of his left hand twitch every now and again around my elbow that he is holding, as though afraid that I might slip away if he relinquishes his grip. He murmurs my name in his sleep. In answer I kiss him very softly so as not to wake him, and one black-clad hand drops down to cup the back of my neck, pulling me closer.

_Leather is a type of fabric made by skinning dead animals and tanning their hides after removing all fur or feathers. Usually it is thin and flexible, and is often worn by people such as motorcyclists. Although out of date now, the term 'to leather someone' means to beat with a leather strap, especially animals. Wearing leather is a statement that goes far beyond fashion; 'leather' is slang to describe something of, pertaining to, or patronized by those who prefer__ sadomasochistic__ sexual intercourse and who use their clothing to say as much. _

Leather suits him perfectly. Once, it was an animal – harmless, timid, submissive. Once he was a child. Someone came to butcher that animal. Someone came to butcher that child. From the ashes of the slaughtered innocence comes a new material, used for beating, used for cruelty, used to flaunt your modern hedonism, used to tell the world that you don't give a shit what they think unless they're willing to fuck you first. It speaks of dark back alleys and flashing red strobe lights, of chains and contaminated needles and fresh tattoo ink, of being bound and gagged to a stranger's bed and pounded into like a three dollar whore while you scream in pain and white ecstasy, seeing angels and devils collide.

But once, it was just an animal.

I think about that as I turn my face away from the onyx buckskin that has been made hot from the heat of his body. No matter how far a thing strays from its roots, the origin can never be separated entirely. The fact will never change that underneath the leather, underneath the injection pricks and gun holsters, under that marred flesh, he is still that same child who shared his chocolate with me once when the bigger boys smashed my Optimus Prime figurine. Under the façade that has grown to be his true face, he is still human.

_Love is a strong feeling of affection toward somebody, romantic or otherwise. Love can also be used to tell of your passionate liking for something; to love music, for example. The word is recorded from the earliest English writings, dating back to the eighth century, and likely comes from the Old Frisian word 'lubo.' The cognate, 'lof,' also appears in some of the earlier forms of Scandinavian languages. _

For the entirely of my life, 'I love you' has been a phrase heard on the faceless streets and larger-than-life movie screens. It held no real meaning, but was simply an overused term thrown around far too often in a sad attempt to express a superficial and unnecessary emotion. When he had said it to me in the midst of that very first afterglow, I hadn't known what to say. I was socially expected to return the sentiment, of course, but I wasn't sure I could lie to him. The expression has so much weight attached to it, so much passion and emotion that I hadn't had time to sort through in the heat of the moment; could I live with myself if I said something intimate that I did not actually mean, simply because I was reluctant to break social code?

There is this feeling, though, this warmth coiling in my chest, and I don't have any sort of definition for it unless, perhaps, love is the word I want. Lying here, feeling his breath and sweat and seed mingling with mine, his skin against my skin, his hand tangled unconsciously in my hair…. I can't ignore this feeling. Slowly I reach up and kiss him, nuzzling my face against his cheek.

"M-mm?" He murmurs, his eyes fluttering open. "Near? What'sa matter?"

"Mello," I whisper, moving my lips back to his. "Mello, I... I love you."

He snorts, leaning up ever so slightly to peck a soft kiss on my mouth. "Yeah," he sighs, resettling us. "Love you, too."


End file.
